Confession

In a frame of gold, she lays, dressed in her coal-colored coat
her shoulders uncover
Eve’s eroticism in my eyes, Paradise, yet she’s far from being my first representation of a woman.
Her black hair waves around her neck like the flag of a country that has for hymn
the whispers of her silence and her meditation.
Battlefield all interior between us,
as arrows through her eyes spell seconds into fragments of her core as she looks out
splinters of time spread into the thick air
a black cloud of solitude will thunder on my skull and bring me down to reason while judging me for treason – revenge to all women that have seen my hungry eyes consume their bodies without manners.
I feel looked at with inviting hateful tender eyes as by surprise she seems to look out of frame to me – asking for a story.

I confess that I once loved
and I thought, at that time, that my love was unique as a relic you need hundreds of years, ancient maps and modern tools to find. That it has the unique taste of the coffee that God brewed in the Holy Grail to drink it the morning after the end of the world.
She made my world smell like that and that kept me awake so long that everything felt lucid dreaming-like till the day she told me ” I don’t love you ” with her full lips and broad mouth
and that’s the day everything noble turned into the brutal desire of putting my cock in her mouth and gag her to death as I watch her eyes tear and turn red like mine and die a thousand times together.
I’m no different from any man, and it’s all my fault;
gangbang deepthroat hardcore
doggy style missionary gonzo
no mercy no compassion for those bodies
mistreated for my pleasure
dopamine release
sickening my fantasies constantly
lonely in disgust – and dirty – so dirty
and miserable I end each of my days
with a suicide – pathetic victimization.

Flowers on dates
are out of fashion
so I stopped cultivating roses in my gardens
but the thorns kept on growing
higher and higher
so high, that they pierced the ceiling which I thought was the sky.
Drips of blood float to the ground
roses have grown again
they look the same
but have a wholly different nature.
With bundles of misery, I commemorate
love
dressed in a black suit
on a park bench
every time I think of her
waiting to love again…

She replies “We’re the same”

And goes back to being a painting.

Painting by Charles-Lucien Léandre, Sur champ d’or, 1897. Pastel.